


The Devil Went Down To Georgia

by thor20



Series: The Children Of Sylvain [2]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast), The Adventure Zone: Amnesty (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Bad Criminal Boys, Cons, Gen, Implied Relationship, M/M, Music-Themed Fic, Pining, TMWCIFTC-Compliant, Will Probably Be Jossed By Griffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 11:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17181746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thor20/pseuds/thor20
Summary: “Let me see if I’ve got it straight,” said Shadow. “So Abraham leaves, nine thousand dollars the richer, and in the parking lot by the train station he and Barrington meet up. They split the money, get into Barrington’s Model A Ford, and head for the next town. I guess in the trunk of that car they must have a box filled with hundred-dollar violins.”“I personally made it a point of honor never to pay more than five dollars for any of them,” said Wednesday.- Neil Gaiman,American GodsIf there's anything Boyd can do well, it's play a fiddle and charm the pants off of anyone he meets. Ned wishes he could say the same about himself. In a diner in Atlanta, Georgia, the two partners in crime do their best to pull a fiddle grift, and it doesn't quite go the way either of them expect.Takes place six years before the events ofThe Moth who Came In from the Cold,though can be read as a standalone.





	The Devil Went Down To Georgia

**Author's Note:**

> So I read American Gods a couple of months ago. I came up with a point A, and a point Z, and no way of determining what happened in between. This is the result of me trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. Enjoy.

_June 9th, 2013_

_Atlanta, Georgia_

_7:06 p.m_

 

It starts with the drum.

It isn’t really a bass drum - just a kick pedal up against an old wash bucket, hammered flat on one side and weighed down with a brick. But it works. And hell, it’s cheaper than buying a real one. It starts with the soft _thump_ of the makeshift drum, echoing across the street and off of buildings; and its rhythm reaches into the crowd and slows it, like a hand squeezing the brakes of a bicycle. The drum becomes the heartbeat of the street.

He feels the rhythm thump through his body and bobs his head. Someone murmurs to their friend about how old his violin looks, wondering if it was worth anything, and his lips twitch into something not quite a smile. Perhaps it is a bit stereotypical for him to fiddle on a street in Georgia, but there is no denying it. It is in his blood. He has the songs in his fingers and the fire in his bones, and by God, he can feel the music thrumming under his skin just begging to be set loose.

He rifles through songs in his brain and chooses a fiddle tune he’d heard a couple of years ago - something that would work better with a couple of guitars backing him, and maybe a piano. But this will do. The drum will do. It always does. He whips out his bow, fast enough that he can feel the wind vibrating through its hairs, and the small crowd gathered around him begins to cheer. A devilish grin flashes across his face. Man, Atlanta really loves their music.

And he begins to play.

The voice of his fiddle echoes off the buildings like a hundred-piece orchestra, all in a strange, unspoken, intoxicating harmony. Like a complete song of its own. Boyd closes his eyes and lets the music make him whole.

* * *

In the diner across the street, Ned watches his partner fiddle up a storm through the window. A crowd is starting to gather, clapping on the offbeats and cheering. He picks up his beer and pretends to take a sip; the cold glass chills his fingers, and he drums his fingers against its side to the rhythm of Boyd’s song.

The diner is half-silent; some patrons are watching the baseball game on the diner’s TVs, and the rest are looking out the open windows at Boyd’s flyin’ fingers. Ned has pickpocketed half of them by now: swiped their wallets, gone to the bathroom, fished out their cash and a few credit cards, and made the rounds to pass them back. ‘Scuse me, sir, ma’am or neither, did you drop your wallet? I found this on the ground under your table. Oh, no, it’s no trouble. You want to buy me a drink? How kind, but I have to drive my brother home tonight. Some fries and a burger? Oho, you tempt me.

Bull fucking shit. If he had his way he’d just take them and run, but there’s only so much attention he can draw to himself. If 37 wallets were stolen from the same establishment, that’d be enough to get them to look at the security tapes, and that wouldn’t be good for him _or_ Boyd. He’s not a complete moron.

Besides. He - he really wouldn’t mind it if they stayed just a bit longer. Boyd is fiddling up a storm out there - the wash-basin drum is thumping away, and the notes go by so fast that Ned can feel them blasting past, like standing too close to a high-speed train. God, the man can really play. And it’s a surprisingly good-sounding fiddle, too. He can really work wonders with his hands...

Ned takes a for-real sip of his beer and sets the glass down. Boyd flashes a smile as the crowd as he plays, his hair flying and teeth glinting. His smile is just a bit too sharp.

Jesus, this is going horribly.

* * *

A shower of coins falls into the open violin case, followed by a few bills. Boyd grins at the crowd and twirls his bow between his fingers. “Any requests?” he calls out. He forces down his Yorkshire accent and puts a bit of a Southern drawl in there. He’s just a local, just like them. That’s all they need to know. He fingers the strings with his left hand, plucking out a melody; a small child stares at him, mouth open. Boyd winks at them. He taps his temple with his bow. “I’ve got quite a list up here in my brain. C’mon, hit me!”

The small crowd starts calling out songs. Some names he’s never heard before, but one rings a bell, and he shoots a finger gun in the vague direction of where he heard it. “Sure thing, pal,” he says, and lifts his bow. He glimpses Ned through the window of the diner across the street and keeps grinning, but can feel it growing tight around the edges.

This is going horribly.

* * *

It depends on the town, really.

Ned and Boyd have been clawing their way back to the East Coast from Portland: down the West, to Vegas, up the spine of the Rockies and past the Great Lakes. If Ned were to look at a map and plot out all the cities they’ve tried to pull this in, it’d look like a snake, winding up and down the great old U S of A from north to south. They’re not quite following the same route they took to get there, no siree. Never the same town twice. They learned that the hard way in Austin.

Whether or not they’ve been there, it _does_ depend on the town. Medium to large-size towns are usually the best. Bigger pool to cast the net in. Wider spectrum of shady places to find. Pick a place that speaks to you: just underhanded enough to let the grift slide, just rich enough to make some quick cash. And above all, find a mean rich person with enough cash in their pocket and enough greed in their soul to turn a quick buck.

But it depends on the town. It really does. That’s why they haven’t been able to do jack shit for three weeks straight. The deep South is _not_ the place for a grift that depends on the fallibility of man. Too many kind-hearted Christian folk down here. Man, the tables would turn like a goddamn roulette wheel if they knew Ned was gay.

* * *

Boyd’s fingers fly across the fingerboard, and the notes soar up between the buildings. There’s still a crowd, gathered around him, and it’s only starting to get thicker. He eyes the diner again. Ned is sitting at the window, pretending to nurse a beer - wait, no, Boyd can see he’s actually drinking it. Hopefully, they’ll be able to find a mark before Ned gets plastered. In times when their pockets were lined a little thicker and they were wandering through colder climes, Boyd wouldn’t quite mind helping a drunk Ned back to their chosen hotel for the night. Ned is loud when he’s drunk, but clingy when he’s _drunk,_ and Boyd’s a weak man for hugs.

But now, the summer is building to a crescendo, and money is getting tight. They are running out of time, and this damn fiddle has been on their hands for too long. The closer they get to the East Coast, the more Boyd can feel something ancient, weary and vile stirring in his bones. He left for a reason. He’d be damned if he can remember why.

There is a string quintet setting up about 15 feet from the entrance to the diner: two violins, a viola, a cello, and an upright double bass. The whole shebang. That won’t do; competing for busking spots usually ends badly. Boyd clears his throat. “Hey!” he calls. “Y’all there, across the street!”

They glance over at him, faces closed-off and sharp with anger.

“You know any...  Leroy Anderson? ‘Fiddle-Faddle,’ by any chance?”

There’s a whoop from the crowd - and, startled for a brief moment, the string quintet looks at each other. Their double bassist nods and grins. One of the violinists swallows nervously, and Boyd gets it; ‘Fiddle-Faddle’ is a tough song for the first violin, but a damn good crowd pleaser. They can do it, though. He’s got faith in ‘em.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” he hears the violist say. “Maybe he’ll split the tips.” The violinist swallows and nods, and they drift across the street towards them. Boyd gives them a devilish grin - God, they’re young, probably from the college about a mile north - and starts tapping out a fast tempo on his makeshift drum. The crowd picks it up and starts clapping softly, feeling the rhythm deep in their blood. He can see someone lift a baby onto their shoulders.

Across the street, Ned sets down his beer next to his left elbow.

They’ve got a mark. Excellent. Boyd lets a bit of the relief he’s feeling bleed into his face, giving the quintet of college students a broad smile. “Alright!” he calls out. Ned props his chin on his hand and watches pensively, and Boyd can feel his eyes on him. “A-one! A-two! A one! Two! Three -!”

They’re good musicians, these kids. They take a breath together - and then they’re off, fingers flying, rosin drifting, the drum pound, pound, pounding its heartbeat across the street. Despite everything, Boyd feels a flutter of joy deep down in his chest, seeing the smiles and the joyful eyes around him, and knowing that it’s because of him. It’s his hands on the bow and his fingers on the strings. Despite everything, it’s still him. He’s still got it.

At least they’re not playing “The Devil Went Down To Georgia.” Now, that’s just cliche.

* * *

And Ned wonders, for the briefest of seconds, if they should even do the con tonight at all.

He’s never heard Boyd play the fiddle like this ever before, never in his life. He is a whirlwind out there on the pavement: tall and lanky like a stork, a whirlwind of tapping feet and flashing, wide grins and jet-black hair gleaming under the streetlights. And the kids he’d roped into this were keeping up with him really well, fiddling away as if they’d been charmed -

The song fades down to a soft pizzicato; Boyd grins at the college kids and hunches over a bit, losing almost two feet in height. Once they get quiet, the double bassist goes to fucking town, plucking out a jazzy set of notes that the gathered crowd really seems to like. And Boyd looks like he is actually having fun. Nothing like the man Ned has been following across the South for the past month, who has seemed to wither, grow bitter and sour, the closer they get to the East Coast. This part of the country isn’t friendly to him.

Boyd and the first violinist suddenly break into high, but soft, sixteenth note runs; the cellist plays a loud, sweeping melody over the top, and someone in the crowd starts _singing along -_ and in the ludicrousness of it all, people begin to dance. Without stopping once, Boyd throws back his head and laughs. Ned chuckles softly and watches the light dance in his partner’s eyes. He can see it even from across the street, he can - that’s how bright his soul burns. God, he’s missed seeing that spark.

His eyes unfocus. In the window’s reflection of the bar, he can see their mark - an older gentleman in a crisp suit - sit down, and order a beer and a steak. Ned sighs.

* * *

Here’s how it’s supposed to go.

It’s a two-man con. All the best cons are two-man cons, Ned was fond of saying, and he’d always elbow Boyd in the side and wink when he did. Boyd would make a face and turn away to hide his blush. These days, all Ned gets is an annoyed huff, or a bland, unimpressed stare - but that’s beside the point.

It’s a two-man con.

What you start with is a man with a fiddle. A busker, maybe. A man a bit down on his luck. He goes to eat at a homey but pricey place - no chain restaurant, no sir, a mom-and-pop diner where the owner tends the register is the best place to go - and orders what he can. He’s gaunt and hungry, you see, and he needs a meal to fill him up before he moves on to the next town, to play the next song.

But oops. The tips he’s managed to scrape together aren’t nearly enough to cover his meal. And he left his wallet at home. He’s terribly sorry, you see, and he doesn’t want to cheat good honest folk out of their money. His apartment is rather close, though - he’ll run out and grab his wallet, and he’ll be right back, he _swears_. He’s terribly, terribly sorry.

And how, the cashier or the owner or whoever asks, do we know that you’ll come back? Well. He’ll leave his fiddle as security. The source of his livelihood. He loves it more than his own mother, and he will leave it in the restaurant owner’s care as collateral against his meal, because he doesn’t want to cheat an honest man. You understand, right? Of course you do. He’ll be right back, really. He will.

So he leaves to get his wallet.

That’s when the second man strikes.

* * *

The end of the song is coming up real fast. Boyd takes the kids’ lead as they press on, repeating the first chunk of the song - and it really is easier the second time around, the notes rattling right off as if they’ve played them all their life. And their little audience is clapping along - Boyd doesn’t even have to use his bass drum anymore to keep time, that’s how deep the music’s gone into their bones.

Hell, he can feel it too. Some kind of ancient magic stirs in him, and he feels a giddy fire start to burn in his blood. It feels right to smile, it feels necessary - like a release valve on a radiator, turn it and let the steam off - and, like any good ensemble musician, he meets the eyes of the kids he’s playing with. But something about his wildness makes the other musicians wilt a bit. The cellist stares at him, wide-eyed, as if they are confronting a wolf in the shadows, and Boyd grits his teeth a little. Dial it back there, devil, he thinks, drawing himself back to the music.

There’s only a handful of measures left. Just a ladder of notes up to a high D, and then a jazzy riff down that’s so soft and whisper-quiet that the whole crowd falls silent to listen. They all lean in to hear each other - and for the drama of it all, of course, they’re _performers,_ damn it - as it gets softer and softer...

There’s a rest. Boyd whoops and belts out the last four measures, stomping on the ground to keep time. They all tear across the string in one last, cacophonous chord, and throw their hands in the air, bows held high. The crowd claps and cheers; Boyd can see smiles all around, people giddy and gleeful from the rush of music that’s washed over him - and hell, it feels _good._ Despite everything, it was him. And these kids. But mostly him.

He flashes a grin at the crowd, winking at a couple of women at his left, and rubs his hip. It’s starting to twinge. “Alright, folks, thanks for comin’ out!” he calls out. There’s a wordless cheer; some coins and spare change fall into his open violin case. He laughs a little and heads over to the case, scooping out a handful of coins and bills and putting them in the quintet’s tip jar. “I don’t know ‘bout these folks, but I’m gonna grab a bite to eat. Give ‘em a listen, hear what they’ve got! Thank you, Atlanta, ‘s been a real pleasure!”

Some people look disappointed. But the violinist, sensing the crowd wanting to leave, picks up their bow and cues the rest of the quintet, and they start to play. Something - strange, that makes the crowd stop in confusion; it’s quiet and soft, and just a bit eerie, in a way that sends an intrigued shiver up Boyd’s spine. It has the flavor of a tango, almost. He can imagine a soft, sultry dance, pressed chest to chest under the moonlight -

But he has business elsewhere. Boyd packs up his instrument and goes to the bar across the street. Con aside, he’s pretty damn hungry.

* * *

The second man is a professional violin appraiser, or a museum curator on vacation, or just an avid collector with an eye for detail - depends on the place, really. New York is not the place to pretend to be a museum curator. Not when the Metropolitan and its collection of hundreds of instruments is down the damn street. Everyone knows a museum curator, for fuck’s sake. There’s an angle to the dangle - there always is.

Whatever he is, the second man knows his stuff. He knows more than any man has any right to know, and it shows, in his steady hands and easy grin and the awe in his voice as he informs the cashier that _by God, this violin is worth nearly ten thousand dollars._

Yes. What incredible luck, isn’t it? The violin itself, they bought it in a pawn shop for fifty, and there’s no doubt it’s worth less than that. But nobody needs to know that.

So he turns the violin over, tutting and hemming and hawing and just _gushing_ about what a beautiful piece this is; why, give it a little work and it could go for fifteen thousand, maybe even eighteen! Whose violin is this? he asks. Do they know what incredible luck they have? My, my, I would just _love_ to meet them -

But he can’t, you see. He has to catch a flight back home in a few hours, and of course, you know how it is with airplanes and security and all that hogwash. He has to leave, now.

And so the second man packs up his belongings and slides a business card over to their mark. It has his name and number on it - both false, the number leading to a defunct payphone somewhere in West Virginia that nobody ever, ever checks. Tell him to call this number, the second man says to the mark. Tell him what incredible luck he’s got.

And the second man leaves.

And then they wait.

* * *

“Oh, no,” Boyd breathes, and pats his pockets. He opens his jacket and frantically rummages through the inside pockets, jams his hands into his pants. His elbow smacks his empty plate, and his silverware screeches across the plate. “Oh, God, I’m - I’m terribly sorry, I -”

The bartender raises an eyebrow. Down the bar, their mark glances over.

“I left my wallet at home,” Boyd says, his face pained. He leans on the counter and clasps his hands on top of it, looking the bartender right in the eyes. “Mister, I’m terribly, _terribly_ sorry, you gotta understand - but my apartment’s just ‘bout ten or eleven blocks away. I can run back and get my wallet and pay for the meal, I’m so sorry -”

“How’m I supposed to know that you’ll come back?” the bartender says suspiciously.

Boyd pauses, and swallows. He looks terrified, as if he’s afraid that one wrong move will set the other man off. And he reaches down to the floor, where the battered violin case sits.

“I’ll leave this here,” he whispers, his voice cracking. The bartender’s eyebrows fly up. “As - as security, sir. Name's Jebediah Leeds, alright, you can give that to the cops if you want to. I’ll come right on back for it, this is - I’ve had that violin for almost a decade now, I ain’t played anything like it in my whole life…”

While Boyd is hamming it up, Ned glances around the bar again. Most of the people near Boyd are paying attention to his interaction with the bartender; he can see jackets hanging open and purses ignored, hanging off the backs of chairs, and slips off his own seat. There’s a college-age kid in a red jacket at the end of the bar, sitting with a battered textbook, a basket of fries, and a beer. His wallet is hanging half out of his pocket. Ned bumps up against him and deftly swipes it.

“I’ll be right back, I swear,” Boyd says. He seems about ready to jump out of his skin from nerves, and the bartender’s looking at him with more concern and pity than suspicion. Which is good. Boyd’s a hell of an actor - can charm the skin right off a cat. Boyd turns and races out of the bar, giving Ned a passing glance and a faint wink. Ned gives him an easy smile and winks back.

The bar door slams shut behind Boyd, and Ned can see him running up the street on the way to his “apartment.” He sighs and pockets the college kid’s wallet - kids are dumb, there’s a chance that he won’t notice it until it’s too late - and sidles towards the bar.

* * *

And so, the board is set. The pieces are moving. This all hinges on the fallibility of their mark, the willingness for someone to sell out their fellow man. Lord knows there's plenty of shitty people in the world. Ned and Boyd are just a couple of them. But this really is the trickiest part of the grift - because here, the cards can fall any way.

If they picked their mark right, then it'll be an easy sell. The guy - or gal, they don't discriminate here - has got to be some cheap miserly bastard, you see. When they hear of the deal that's in this diner, just waiting to be snapped up, then the wheels should start turning. If it's worth ten thousand, then hell, their mark can try and buy it off the violinist at a steep markdown and sell it on their own. Easy cash.

If that happens, then the two con men are right on the money. The first man comes back with his wallet and pays for the meal - and the mark approaches him, and offers to buy the violin off of him. There's a bit of haggling - the violinist loves that thing more than his mother, you see, he couldn't bear to part with it - but he eventually gives it up. Not for pennies on the dollar, no - he still makes a cool two or three thousand dollars off of it. A bargain. The conmen walk away a couple thousand dollars richer; the mark tries to sell their violin to a museum or some shit and gets turned down, because this thing would barely pick up ten bucks at a flea market. It's only fair.

But it doesn't always work like that. Fuckin' Southern hospitality. Some folks hear that the violin's worth $20,000 and tell Boyd, "Dear, can you believe your luck! You're rich!" The good Lord smiles on you on this day, happy trails, blah fucking blah. They've been arcing across the Bible Belt for the past month or so, and good God these people haven't been falling for it! It's enough to make Ned want to rip his hair out. If only for the way that it's making Boyd tense up, giving him a crazed look to his eyes, making him snap at Ned every chance he gets.

They can make this work. They have to make this work.

It's showtime.

* * *

"Goodness _gracious_ me," Ned says softly, in a Southern drawl so solid it nearly makes him break character and beam with pride. He sounds like a goddamn local. Nobody'd be able to tell that he's from way further up the coast. "Is that - sir, would you mind lettin' me take a look a that there violin?"

The bartender frowns suspiciously. "Why should I?" he says, while filling up another beer for the college kid at the end of the bar. Ned glances over. Damn, the boy looks tired. Poor guy's probably gonna fail whatever test he's studying for. He almost feels bad for stealing his wallet. "Mister?"

"Archaelius Donner, my good man," Ned says, extending a business card. He and Boyd printed these out at the public library two days ago. The man grabs the card and squints at it, like he's trying to find a watermark in a bill. "I'm an instrument collector, here in town on business - and I couldn't help but notice that fine young fella out there fiddlin' up a storm - his instrument sounded real good, don't you think?"

The bartender looks a bit more pacified; he hands the business card back to Ned. "He sure did," he says, glancing outside. The quintet is still playing out there; they've looped through a handful of tunes and are back on that tango they were playing earlier, around the time Boyd ran in to get some food and start the grift. It's a nice little tune. "Good luck collectin' on that violin, though, the man loves that thing like his firstborn child."

"Maybe so. Mind if I take a look?"

Down the bar, their mark - a short, burly, balding man in a suit and tie - eats the last of his steak and focuses his full attention on Ned.

The bartender pulls up the case from behind the bar and sets it down, clicking open the latches. This case has definitely seen better days; the faux leather shell is starting to crack and peel, and the hinges are nearly rusted shut, but it's still functional. Ned pops it open, wrinkling his nose at the coins that come tumbling out - Boyd forgot to collect his tips - and lifts the violin up.

Make no mistake: this thing is a piece of garbage. Flea-market firewood. By some miraculous stroke of luck, the thing does have a gorgeous sound, but it still looks like it's seen better days. Ned knows this thing like the back of his hand. He's seen Boyd playing it for weeks, seen the bow soaring across the strings, heard the soft screech of skin on wood. Boyd always comes to life when he plays - as if there's a piece of him falling into place, making him whole again. Ned misses that.

The bartender looks at him funny, and he realizes he's getting distracted. Ned sniffs and scratches his nose, trying to make his zoned-out appearance seem more like academic contemplation. "Hmm," he says, lifting the violin out of its case and peering through the sound holes. There's a centipede crawling around in there; he tries not to wince and throw the violin as far as he can.

He tries to make his panic look like shock and amazement. "My _God,"_ he breathes. "This is - stars above, this is a _Carcassi!_ It's -"

"What's that mean?" the bartender asks.

"It's -" Ned searches for a figure. He'd done a cursory Google search before heading in here - that way, if anyone got suspicious and tried to corroborate his claims, they'd get the same results. He has a number for the Carcassi. "Jesus, this is worth at least eighty thousand dollars!"

And their mark, the man at the end of the bar, surges to his feet and comes walking right over. Ned hides a grin. Oh boy, this was easier than he thought it would be. The man has a sharpness to his face and a shrewdness in his eyes that just screams greedy miser. They've got this in the bag -

The short man holds his hand out and says, in a curt and crisp Boston accent, "Let me see." Ned raises his eyebrows and gives him a tense, polite smile. Southern people are real good at that: easy, kind smiles that hide promises of gruesome, bloody murder.

The bartender says, "Now, hold on -"

"A Carcassi doesn't just turn up in a bar in downtown Atlanta," the man says, his face twisting sourly. Ned feels his beatific smile flicker. "Let me see that, I need to know -"

"This man here is an expert," the bartender exclaims, gesturing at Ned. Ned tries to ignore how his smile feels like it's coming apart at the edges. The marks aren't supposed to ask questions, they're not supposed to be curious - they're not supposed to know jack shit. "He's a collector, he knows his shit. Leave him alone, man."

Ned turns to their mark and holds out a hand. By God, he'll try and salvage this as much as he can; it'll take a bit more effort to trick this guy, but he'll see what he can do. "Archaelius Donner," he says pompously. "Instrument collector."

And the mark shakes his hand with a sharp, deadly smile. "Arthur Finnegan," he says. "Museum curator with the Met in New York. Give me the Carcassi."

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit, oh, _fuck._ This is the exact fucking reason why they don't pull this grift in New York or anywhere in the area, because of the fucking _museum curators._ Some of them are kind of dumb, to be fair. But every now and then they come across one who can identify the age and maker of a Bavarian flugelhorn by the smell of its horn polish, or whatever the fuck - and those are the ones that make Ned's and Boyd's lives a living fucking hell. What the hell is this guy even doing down here, out of New York?

"New York, huh?" Ned says easily, ignoring how his collar is really starting to itch. "Quite a ways out of your... way. Heh. What brings you down here?" Across the street, the quintet launches into the slightly faster part of their tango. God, that's not helping Ned's nerves at all.

"Daughter has a music conference," Arthur says. "She's a high school band director."

"Oh, of course."

"Yes. So, hand over the violin, please," the man says, giving Ned a pleasant, bland smile. Jesus, this guy is freaking him the fuck out. "A Carcassi? What is it, a Lorenzo or a Tomaso? What year would you place this as - their early works, or their later ones? Does it have the joint work label?"

Fuck. This guy is actually for real. Oh, Ned is in so much trouble - he passes the violin to Arthur, trying not to let it slip out of his suddenly sweaty hands, and says, laughing awkwardly, "Why don't you - uh, look for yourself?"

Arthur raises one eyebrow and looks down at the violin. He definitely comes at it from a more... well, qualified angle than Ned does: checking the scroll, and the thingy down at the bottom, and gently tapping the wood and listening to the inside. Ned shifts from foot to foot, feeling the eyes of at least a quarter of the diner on him, praying that Boyd comes back soon. That man could talk the spikes off a cactus, and Ned really needs some of that energy behind him.

Then Arthur heaves a heavy sign and sets the violin back in the case. "A Carcassi, huh," he says flatly. The bartender looks between them, a slightly fearful look in his eyes.

"Uh," says Ned.

The other man flips the latches closed and slides the violin back towards the bartender. "I know what you're trying to pull here, buddy," he says in a low voice. "That thing ain't shit. Wouldn't use it to light a cigarette."

"Now, hold on -" Ned fumbles for words. He grabs the violin case with one hand and drags it towards the edge of the bar. "How do I know you're even a curator?" he says defensively. "For all I know, you could - you could be trying to trick me -"

Arthur reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wallet, and shows him a museum employee ID. Well. Fuck. "Mr. Donner," the man says, a slightly disgusted tilt to his mouth, "if that's even your real name - I suggest you pack it up and get it out of here before I call the cops on you."

"Mr. Finnegan, I -"

Suddenly there's a violent tug, and the violin case vanishes from under Ned's fingers. Ned whips around. At the end of the bar is a full glass of beer, a half-eaten basket of fries, and a worn-out textbook that Ned realizes is actually a copy of the fifth Harry Potter book, crammed into an anthropology book's dust jacket.

The kid sitting there is nowhere to be seen. Then Ned sees a red jacket blasting past the windows. "Fucking hell," he spits, and runs out after him.

"Sir!" Arthur yells. Ned flips him off over his shoulder and charges after the kid. He must not have heard that the violin wasn't worth jack shit, seen his chance, and ran off with it. Fuck, this is shaping up to be a horrible night.

God, okay, this grift was a fucking bust - there's no way in hell they're gonna be able to salvage this. But without the violin, they won't be able to try their luck somewhere else. Sure, they could buy a new one in another town, but it won't be the same. Boyd won't be the same. They've had this fiddle for the past four or five towns, and Boyd - hell, he'd never admit it, but Boyd is starting to get attached to the damn thing. When Ned's driving them to a new place, he'll take it out sometimes and pluck out the tune of the song playing on the radio, nearly pitch-perfect. He'd never done that before with the other violins.

Ned's gonna have to get this thing back. He has to. God, where the hell is Boyd?

* * *

Boyd sighs and props his elbows on his knees, tapping his toe and staring at the ground. He'd found his way to a nearby park and claimed a park bench, waiting for Ned to come out. He figures that he'd need a handful of minutes until Ned came running out, spouting some excuse about having to catch a taxi out to the airport or whatever. Ned would slip on over to the park, give him the details on what had gone down, and then Boyd would sprint back to the diner to pay for his meal. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am, and they'd be a couple thousand dollars richer. God, fate needed to give them a fucking break.

He reaches down, and fiddles with the small cord looped around his ankle. It's a cheap little leather band bound with snap buttons, with one small charm hanging from it, that he picked up maybe 20 years ago - and despite its hideousness he can't quite seem to let go of it. For obvious reasons, and some not so obvious. Hell, half the time he only feels like he's holding onto it because Ned likes it. He thinks it's incredibly ironic, because of the whole criminals and ankle monitor thing, but he likes it -

Boyd hears pounding feet and looks up, and sees a lanky college-aged kid in a red coat come sprinting towards him. And Ned is running right behind him, but quickly losing ground, and for a hot few seconds Boyd feels a great sweeping wave of rage come blasting through him, because Ned, what the _hell_ did you _do_ -

Then he see the kid is holding a violin case. A very familiar violin case.

And Boyd sees red.

* * *

As they turn the corner onto another street, Ned sees - emerging from the shadows like a summoned demon - Boyd, running to intercept the kid who stole the violin. "Get him!" he wheezes, not even sure if Boyd will hear him; damn, all this running is going to put him in an early grave. There's a reason why they drive everywhere.

The kid freezes in front of Boyd, dodges one way, and then jumps around the other, sending Boyd sprawling. Something falls out of the kid's pocket and hits the ground, sending bits of paper blowing everywhere. Boyd launches himself to his feet with superhuman speed and follows the kid in the red jacket, disappearing around a corner. Ned watches him go, breathing hard, both his hands on his knees.

Once he's sure he's caught his breath and can walk without falling over, he walks over to where the thing fell from the kid's pocket. It's a summer night and the street is almost entirely dark, so it takes a while to find it, but then Ned's fingers brush up against leather. Frowning, he pulls out his phone - a burner flip, nothing fancy - and turns it on, using the light from the screen to see what he's looking at.

It's his wallet.

The kid took his motherfucking wallet.

And damn, if Ned doesn't feel a bit sorry for that kid. Just a bit of sympathy - not much, but it's there. The kid is just trying to scrape by, like the rest of them. Pickpocketing strangers in bars is a good gig; Ned guesses that he and Boyd pulled in quite a bit, just from Ned goin' around and taking what he can find. He sighs and reaches into his own pocket, pulling out the wallet he'd swiped from the kid.

It's completely empty. Classic bait. Well, would you look at that - the conman got conned. That kid's going places, Ned can tell - just hopefully not to jail. He sighs and starts to gather up what little fell out of his wallet, hoping Boyd is going to be alright.

The street is awfully quiet.

* * *

Boyd feels a vicious snarl try to tear its way loose from his throat, but he tamps it down; it's early June, and there's no telling who's going to be out and about, but there's something deep down and primal that insists there isn't going to be a problem. _No witnesses,_ a voice whispers. _You can leave no witnesses. You can._

But that voice feels the way a doorway without a door looks - hollow, transparent, tattered, incomplete - and somehow, Boyd can't trust it. He forces himself to run faster, following that fucking kid through the streets of Atlanta, feeling phantom pains twinge in his hip and up his spine. He has to - he can't - he has to get that thing back -

And then the kid dives into an alley up ahead. Boyd feels a grin stretch his lips, wide and wild, and figures, fuck it. He might be able to do this the easy way after all.

The alley is a dead end: just a gap between two buildings, with a handful of trashcans and boxes piled high near the back. A service entryway. The kid skids to a halt at the end of the alley and looks around wildly, searching for a way out - something, anything - but the only way back is through Boyd.

He looks back. Jeez, the kid looks pretty scared. Boyd sincerely hopes that he won't have to scare him any more.

"Just hand over the violin, kid," he says wearily. "It's not worth it."

The kid shakes his head. "No," he says, his voice shaking. "I - I'm not giving it to you -"

"It's mine!" Boyd snarls. The kid flinches. Boyd sighs, closing his eyes, and tries to force some calm into his voice. "It's mine, and I need it back," he says, as evenly as he can manage. He reaches out, raising an eyebrow at the boy. "C'mon, man. Do the right thing."

"Means a lot coming from you," the boy snaps, clutching the case to his chest. His eyes dart from side to side. Good grief, does he think he's going to be able to scale the wall like fucking Spiderman? "You and that other guy were tryin' to con someone in there. Fuck off with your talk 'bout the 'right thing'-"

"Sometimes you have to _try_ to do the right thing," Boyd insists. "Sometimes you - you just -" And he can't find it in himself to finish - because he can't even believe the words coming out of his mouth. It was as if someone had told them to him and he was repeating, like some kind of Sunday school lesson, but he couldn't for the life of him remember why, or how, someone ever told him -

The kid grits his teeth. God, he's young. "It's - it's eighty thousand dollars, mister," he whispers. "I'm a junior, I'm workin' two jobs, I - I need the money, mister, you gotta understand -"

Boyd grits his teeth, and clenches his outstretched hand into a fist. "Fuck it, kid, I don't care," he snaps, and the kid's eyes go wide again. "Hand it over, now."

"No!"

And the kid tenses and tries to sprint forward. That same wild rage slams into Boyd like a freight train, and he waits for the kid to pass a bit closer to him before picking him up and throwing him back into the alley. He hits the ground with a pained wheeze. "Give it back!"

"Fuck off!"

That does it. Boyd lifts his leg, ignoring how his hip twinges, and yanks off the ankle bracelet with a snap.

And the shadows around him _explode._

* * *

A roar comes from down the street, echoing off the buildings. Ned pauses, halfway through jamming an Arby's gift card back into his wallet, and lifts his head. "What the fuck?" he mutters.

There's no other sound. He shrugs and returns to his wallet. He knows he picked up a Starbucks gift card from one of those wallets in the diner. Maybe they'll stop by one on their way to wherever they're going next. Boyd likes their lattes.

* * *

Boyd lets the anklet - a leather cord, with a charm for the New Jersey Devils braided into it - fall from his fingers, and it hits the ground with a muffled clink. He can smell the fear coming off this college kid in waves, and some part of him - deep down, something he thought was buried but is clawing its way back to the surface - revels in it. Unbidden, he imagines blood on his teeth and flesh under his claws, and the thought makes him shiver with something not quite disgust.

The kid drops the violin case. It hits the ground with a vaguely musical _clunk_ , and the sight of that shitty pawn-shop violin being thrown around makes Boyd _furious._ Oh, he knows what he must look like to this - this human, a mess of cobbled-together wings and claws and hooves and sharp, sharp teeth, with a forked devil's tail and vicious scars curving around his ribs. He knows that he is fearsome to behold. That's no excuse for treating that violin like shit.

And he doesn't even know why he cares about that hunk of shit so much. Maybe because it's the only thing they haven't been able to push off on someone else, for over a month; maybe he's getting attached to it. He doesn't know why.

But since when has the Jersey Devil been a voice of reason?

Boyd lunges forward and gnashes his teeth. The kid screams and lunges out of the way, running empty-handed towards the mouth of the alley. He hunches protectively over the case, turns towards the fleeing kid, and lets out a roar. The sound echoes off the buildings in a strange, unspoken, horrifying screech.

And he's gone. The kid is gone. Alive, and gone, and the violin is underneath the claws of his front legs, whole and well, and he almost goes boneless with relief. It isn't like him to be like this. It shouldn't be - it never should have been - but God, he can't remember for the life of him why not.

With one shaking clawed paw, Boyd reaches for the anklet, lying discarded against the wall.

* * *

And now, Ned is terrified out of his fucking gourd, because none of those noises sounded like a backfiring car, or a motorcycle starting up, or anything  - it was like some sort of caged wild beast, howling into the night, and Ned would bet all the money in his pockets that he'd heard someone screaming. It didn't sound like Boyd, but he'd never be able to forgive himself if it was. So he jams his wallet deep into his coat, in a pocket that he's sure nothing will be able to come out of, and sprints around the corner where he'd seen Boyd disappear -

Almost right away, he runs into that kid with the red jacket, who's running as fast as he can in the opposite direction. "What the - _hey!"_ Ned says, turning around. The kid stumbles, but keeps running without a word. Ned watches him go, feeling something like dread sinking down into his stomach.

He pats his coat. Okay, his wallet is still there. He can move on.

About a block down, there's a small alleyway between two restaurants, and Ned can just barely make out a person walking out of it. "Boyd?" he calls. "That you?" He can't - he can't quite see them; they seem surrounded by a dark mist, as if the alley's shadows are reluctant to let them go, but they look tall and lanky enough to be Boyd, and they're holding a violin case. So it's probably him - but as Ned gets closer, he gets a better look. A real, good look.

Something's not right.

Boyd's standing like he's been shot in the stomach, slumped over just slightly; his free hand is curved into a cruel claw at one side, while the other holds the violin case's handle in an white-knuckled grip. There's a strange glint in his eyes that makes Ned want to check the streetlights, to see if any of them are shining red - but he can't look away.

"We can't keep doing this," Boyd says softly. His voice is a hoarse croak, as if he's been yelling with it for days.

Ned sighs and jams his hands into his pockets. "Maybe not," he says. "We'll - it'll be alright."

The words sound hollow. Boyd doesn't seem to notice; he just shakes his head and closes his eyes. "Let's go," he breathes. "But - not to Jersey, Christ."

"What?"

They start to walk north, to where Ned parked his car in a Denny's parking lot. Boyd seems to be limping a bit, dragging his left foot behind him. "Not to Jersey, not to Jersey," Boyd repeats under his breath. Like he's drunk. He tips his head back to stare at the stars, but they're deep enough in the city that they can't be seen. Ned realizes that they've forgotten Boyd's drum on the street outside the diner. "Not to -"

"Boyd," Ned says gently. He still feels something like fear spiking in his gut, and sheer panic - because Boyd's not feeling good, and he doesn't know what to do. "It's - it's alright, we'll steer clear of that part of the country, okay, buddy? We'll, uh... just head north. Tennessee might have some good pickings. Maybe even West Virginia." And he's talking just to hear himself talk at this point, he knows, because next to him Boyd is crumbling into a shadow of himself, and he doesn't know what to do. He just doesn't know what to do.

They keep walking. They don't notice that, behind them as they walk, the streetlights are flickering out one by one.

* * *

Days and miles away, Aubrey Little hears a crash in the living room downstairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. Boyd Mosche is the Jersey Devil, folks. You heard it here first.
> 
> Here's my thought process: the Jersey Devil was supposedly born to a woman by the last name of Leeds, which is a last name that has roots in Yorkshire, England. Which would explain Boyd's wildly inconsistent accents. Also, Boyd as the Jersey Devil is incredibly ironic for Ned, especially in the universe of TMWCIFTC, because this guy has been rubbing elbows with cryptids since the goddamn Kennedy assassination and has been none the wiser this whole time.
> 
> Here's the songs that I've referenced in this story, in order of appearance. I've actually played all of them except "Reel Circulaire"; "Fiddle Faddle" is a bop and a half but super hard for the first violin part, and "Phantom Tangos" is just. Fun.
> 
> Boyd's first solo: ["Reel Circulaire," Genticorum](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTzw3v5QYYE)  
> Fiddle Faddle: [ "Fiddle Faddle," Leroy Anderson, Novosibirsk Philharmonia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=23laBBvHm00)  
> The tango they're playing: ["Phantom Tangos," Brian Balmages](https://www.fjhmusic.com/strings/mp3/st6168.mp3) (yeah i know it's a normal school orchestra song, but they're college kids, give them a break)
> 
> Thanks for reading, folks! If you wanna chat or check out any of my other shit, stop on by my tumblr, [@taako-waititi.](https://www.taako-waititi.tumblr.com/) Have a great day, everyone!


End file.
